


Fatal Attraction

by PWeasley99



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Demon Moriarty, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Foreplay, Ghost Sherlock, John Plays Rugby, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Rugby Captain John, Teen John, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock, balletlock, ghost irene, ghostlock, rugbyjohn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6146759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PWeasley99/pseuds/PWeasley99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a 16-year old rugby captain. Sherlock Holmes is a 15-year-old ballet dancer who drowned nearly 17 years prior. When John moves into an old house with his mother and sister after the tragic death of his father, he starts having strange nightmares. He meets Sherlock Holmes and is instantly charmed, but Sherlock warns him to stay out of the basement. The deeper John digs into the house's horrible history and the more curious he gets about whatever is in the basement, the closer he comes to his own demise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Firstly, I would like to say thanks so much for reading this! It really means a lot to me that you want to read my stuff! Feel free to leave kudos and nice comments if you liked it :)
> 
> Secondly, to kick off the story, the first chapter will be kinda long, so I hope that's alright with you, coz I'm gonna go it anyway :P  
> Also, in the show, John says that he's never gotten along with his sister Harry, but this story kinda goes against that a bit, so I hope you don't mind.  
> Oh! and I have exams and assignment due dates dawning on me this week but I will try to update as often as possible (everyday if I can manage it- I know how hateful waiting is)
> 
> Finally, I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it! (All mistakes- if any- are mine and I do not own any of the characters involved in the story)
> 
> (Sorry, one more thing-  
> Glasz= The most beautiful and magical colour ever. It's a mix between blue, green, grey and a hint of yellow. When you know someone with Glasz eyes, their eyes seem to change colours from green, to blue, to grey. [Dictionary.com] e.g. Benedict Cumberbatch's eyes)

It was a crisp, autumn evening when the moving van pulled into the empty street. A lonely, time-worn chalet came into view on the left, almost hidden by scrub, as there were no other houses around for about two miles, due to the thick woodland in the area. Mrs Watson parked the van just outside and told her kids to pile out. John Watson opened the door and stepped out onto the driveway, gravel crunching under his royal blue Converse sneakers. The cool breeze carried red and brown leaves gracefully through the air and whipped through John's scruffy, dirty-blonde hair. Sweat left behind from rugby practice that afternoon caused his dark blue skinny jeans to feel constricting on his legs, and his sleeveless white shirt stuck to his tanned, toned chest and board back. John took a deep breath, feeling the fresh autumn air in his lungs before letting out a long exhale.

They were finally getting on with their lives, as a family of three. No longer four... John blinked back the tears that were beginning to form at the corners of his cornflower blue eyes and walked towards the house, gazing up at it in awe. It stood framed in shadows from the street lamps, illuminated pink from the light of the setting sun. John thought that it looked quite peaceful. Evergreen crawlers crept their way up both sides of the small house and wound themselves around the latticed windows. The structure of the wooden house was solid, so it would keep John and his small family safe from heavy storms. John made his way up to the front door, his shoes crunching on the gravel with every step he took.

The door had an antique knocker and a shiny metal plaque that read ‘221b’ just above it. John was happy for the wide space of land that his mum had bought with his dad’s life insurance, as it meant that he could practice his rugby whenever he liked and explore a bit when his temper flared up. His therapist had told him that it was just the after effects of seeing his dad shot and killed in a robbery gone wrong, but John chose to ignore her. He ran his fingers over the bumpy scar that had taken up permanent residence on his left shoulder. No matter how much John tried to forget that day, he still had the scar to remind him who had survived that day and who had not...

John was violently jerked out of his thoughts when he felt a soft but firm hand on his other shoulder. He looked up and met his mother's tired, blue eyes. “Wrong place, wrong time, Johnny.” she said, and gave his shoulder a squeeze before breaking contact to continue to unload the van. John didn't realise that his face was wet until now. Salty tears streaked down his cheeks with no intention of stopping. He used his sweat-damped shirt to mildly dry his face and stood up straighter. He was the man of the house now. It was his job to protect his mum and little sister.

“Johnny!” a small voice happily called. John turned around to see his sister, Harry, running up the driveway towards him. Her pink and orange tutu bounced with each leap and bound. “Johnny! Mummy says that we can explore! Can you come with me Johnny? Pleeeease!”  
John chuckled and picked her up in his arms, gently touching his nose to hers in a brief Eskimo kiss.  
“Sure we can. Does mum want any help with unpacking?”  
“No. She just said to explore and get to know the house. Come on! Let's go!”  
The little girl squirmed out of her brother's vice-like grip and took off running towards the back of the house. John laughed heartily and took off after her. John had to admit, for a little girl, she was fast! Even though he played rugby and had to run after a ball for the most-time, he still couldn't keep up with the speedy ten-year-old. Eventually, they reached a creek. It was surrounded by sad-looking willow trees and framed with slimy, moss-covered boulders. The purple evening light gave the spot a mysterious atmosphere. Birds chirped and ruffled their wings in the oak and pine trees that were scattered around the darkening woodland, and John couldn't help but smile. Harry let out a delighted squeal.  
“This is where the fairies live, Johnny! I read about it in The Magic Faraway Tree!”  
“Do you want to try and find some?”  
“Yes please!”  
They explored until evening turned into night and their mother summoned them back to the house for supper.

***********

John ran. His feet beat frantically against the ground as he dodged thick, towering trees, desperately trying to outrun whatever was chasing him. He was deep into the forest now, and, to make matters worst, lost. It was light out, so he could guess that he was near the house, but he didn't know which direction he was going. He felt strange, like his body didn't fit him and as if he couldn't control his legs. As John ran for his life, he looked down, to discover that he was, indeed, not in his own body. A woollen, blue scarf enveloped his neck and his arms were covered by purple material, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. In his hands, he found that he was tightly gripping a large, black trench coat. He caught glimpses of black, knee-length shorts on his thin, pale legs. The shirt was tucked in to his shorts, fastened with a black belt. John nearly laughed at the ridiculous white socks that were pulled up to his knees and his overly polished black, leather lace-up shoes. Thick, dark brown curls stuck to his forehead and John suddenly felt very, very afraid. Whatever was chasing him was surely going to kill him. He instantly thought of his dad and choked out a sob.

As his new body tore swiftly through the forest, he began to recognise his surroundings. Pine cones littered the ground and the sun glinted off the creek that Harry and he had discovered that evening. John felt his foot connect with something hard and suddenly he was being dragged towards the water. He kicked and he screamed for help, but to no avail. Of course not, Mycroft is at the office... wait... what? John blinked in confusion. Where did the name 'Mycroft' come from?

Before John knew what was happening, he was being tossed into the tepid water and held down. He splashed and flailed about in an attempt to loosen the grip of whoever was holding him under, but this body was weaker than the one he had before. It was more graceful though, the way the pale arms (but well-muscled, John thought) sliced through the water in a desperate attempt to find oxygen.  
He felt his lungs begin to burn from the lack of said oxygen, and begin to weaken, slowly letting the water in. The tepid water and the eerie silence of the water's depths lulled him into a state of ease. His lungs felt heavy and everything was painful, but he closed his eyes anyway and gave in to the drowsiness that was suddenly overcoming him in great waves. John felt the hand remove itself and his body start to sink. The bottom of the lake coming into view in his mind's eye...

***********

John awoke with a start. A cold film of sweat covered his entire body. He shivered and rolled over onto his side. It was not the first time that he had had nightmares since his father's unnecessary death, but they were never like this. John, feeling a bit shaken, pulled the duvet up around his chin and drifted into a restless slumber for the remainder of the night.

***********

“Goodbye Johnny!”  
John waved back to Harry as his mother drove out of the high school parking lot and towards Harry's primary school.  
“Hey John, mate! Come sit with us!”  
John turned around to find Greg Lestrade, his fullback, waving him over to a crowded table, opposite to the rugby field. His girlfriend, Molly Hooper, clinging eagerly to his right bicep. Mike Stamford and Sebastian Moran, who were having a heated discussion at the end of the bench, looked up to wave their hello's before returning to their conversation. Sarah Sawyer and Mary Morstan giggled when John gave them a wink as he made his way over. Now, John wasn't the most popular kid in school, but being captain of both the team for his school and the rugby club upped his popularity (and attention from hot girls) by a mile!

***********

John genuinely liked school. He was getting above average grades in all his classes and he had tons of friends. He was also liked by all his teachers (especially the coach).  
That afternoon, he had a major practice session with the club. The championship for the junior rugby cup was in a month’s time. Still, John thought that it was too late in the year to play a championship and too late for him and his team to be properly prepared, especially since they were informed at the last minute that they were to play in the championship. The rugby club organisers, Anderson and Donovan, were idiots anyway.  
He wiped the perspiration from his brow and finished his last lap of the field. He paused at the end of his lap to high-five Greg and change his sweat-soaked shirt for a dry one, showing off his toned muscles for the cheerleaders to gawk at. Mary and Sarah squealed and panted from the sidelines and John gave them both a wink and a winning smile, which made them squeal and pant even louder. John chuckled at the absurdity of the situation and proceeded to cover his body with a red polo.

John was interrupted from his fun teasing by the honk of a car horn and Harry’s voice yelling “Come ON Johnny!” He smiled to himself as he grabbed his rugby bag and sprinted towards the car.  
John opened the door behind his mother and climbed into the back of the car, setting his rugby bag beside him. His mother reversed the car and smirked at him in the rear-view mirror.  
“My little Jawn is growing up.” She sniffled and put on an exaggerated sad face, which made both John and Harry laugh.  
“But seriously John, don't lead those girls on if nothing is to come of it.”  
John sighed and nodded. “It's just a bit of fun mum.”  
His mother gave him a loving look through the mirror. “I know sweetheart. Just promise me you'll behave yourself.”  
“Of course mum. Always.”  
“That's my boy.”

They drove for half an hour before they finally reached their destination. The wrought iron gate to the cemetery loomed above the small family as they stepped through. The dead grass crunched under their shoes. Everything is dead here, John thought. Harry skipped around and over gravestones until she found the one she was looking for. Mrs Watson bend over to hug her and place a fresh flower on the new grave. John stayed in the background and watched as Harry talked to her dead father's grave, telling him all about her day at school. John knew that his father couldn't hear Harry, but he didn't want her to face the horrible realisation that their father was never coming back. A lone tear slid down his cheek and mingled with his post-rugby sweat. John would never see his father again and he knew it. He felt sick, like he had swallowed a whole bucket of cement and it had just set in his stomach.  
After his mother and Harry had finished exchanging pleasantries with a headstone, they took their leave, maintaining a constant silence throughout the whole drive home.

**********

In the early hours of the next morning, John stirred awake to the sound of a soulful tune being placed on the violin. He groaned in tired frustration and checked his alarm clock on his desk opposite his bed, which read 1:00AM. Through the window attached to John's left wall, he could see that it was still very dark outside. He groaned again and rolled out of bed. His bare torso was instantly subjected to the cold tang that hung in the air. He shivered and slipped his dressing gown over his shoulders, threading his arms through the sleeves. John crept out of his bedroom, across the lounge room, through the kitchen and out the back door. He sneaked out into the night, breaking into a run as soon as he'd gotten far enough away from the house.

The moon hung low in sky, which was sprinkled with twinkling stars. John tried fruitlessly to avoid stepping on pine cones and pine needles, and he instantly regretted not wearing shoes. They jabbed his heels and pricked his toes, stinging painfully when one particularly spiky pine cone tried to lodge itself in the sensitive sole of his right foot. Dead leaves and other bits of scrub stuck to his pale green, flannel pyjama bottoms. There had better be a brilliant explanation for that violin music, or John swore that he could take his vengeance out on some of the pine trees.

The creek was just up ahead, but what John saw there made him stop dead in his tracks. A boy, possibly around John's age or younger, was dancing across the silvery-black, moonlit lake beneath the weeping willow. A thin fog hung over the surface of the water, delicately surrounding the boy's ankles and feet, and the stars above were reflected off the ripples that the breeze created. Violin music accompanied perfectly with the boy's elegant and spontaneous movements. John felt like he was in a trance, watching the boy dance. John had never been attracted to the same gender before, but this felt different. The boy's flawless porcelain skin was set in perfect harmony with moonbeams that danced across his face. Just watching the boy's taut muscles move in symphony to the hypnotic violin euphony was enough to make John water at the mouth! The boy leapt into the air, twirled and landed perfectly. His eyes were closed as he continued his solitary dance; lost in a world all of his own.

Then, suddenly, John realised something. How could the boy be dancing ON the water? A wave of deja vu overcame him and he stumbled back in shock. That was the same boy from his nightmare last night! He had the same clothes on and everything! John let out an audible gasp and the boy suddenly froze mid-step. His eyes snapped open locked onto John's; Glasz against cornflower blue. And then the boy was gone; disappearing into the fog, along with the mysterious violin.

John bolted back up to the house at top speed, ignoring his sore feet. The boy's glasz eyes burned into his mind. Who... WHAT...was that beautiful creature?


	2. Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself, so here's another chapter! Hope you like it! There's a lot more to come, so stay tuned!!!! (your support means the world to me!!!)

The next afternoon after school, Harry wanted to explore the creek again. John was hesitant about doing so, but he went anyway, determined to protect his sister if the need arose.

“Will we see any fairies today, Johnny?” Harry asked, blinking up at her brother as they walked through the scrub.  
John nearly choked on his own saliva when memories from last night brought themselves to the forefront of his mind.  
“Er... we'll have to see for ourselves, yeah?”  
“Sure. Johnny, I'm so excited to see the fairies! Clara says that her mum's a fairy. Do you think she's lying Johnny?”  
“Mm?”  
“Johnny? Are you even listening to me?”  
“Huh? Oh, shit, sorry Harry. I was just thinking. You go look for fairies. I'll be close by, I promise.”  
“Ok! If I find one I'll be sure to tell you!” and with that, Harry scurried off amidst the dense trees. John decided to take a stroll around the creek. He weaved his own path under the willow trees, over slippery stones and through the shallow areas.

He let his thoughts wander to the mystifying boy from the night before. How gracefully he moved and with such purpose and emotion behind it. He had never see that boy before in his life, so why was he suddenly dreaming about him and seeing him in the most unlikely of places? John thought he was going mad! As if on cue, John brushed aside a curtain of willow leaves and his eyes immediately caught a glimpse of purple just beside the lake. The boy was crouched over a mossy boulder, magnifying glass in hand, intently studying a small patch of toadstools.

After a moment, John cleared his throat. “Hello-”  
The boy's head snapped to look at him with startled glasz eyes . He jumped up faster than John though was possible for a human being and darted off into the forest. John tried his best to keep up with the boy, but like Harry, he was just too fast. John stopped in a small clearing to catch his breath. He put his hands on his knees to steady himself and noticed a blue, woollen scarf resting in the dirt. John smiled to himself and knelt down to pick it up. He looked around to see if the owner was lurking around somewhere in the trees, but no one seemed to be there. John lifted the scarf to his nose and breathed in deeply. It smelt like cinnamon and peppermint, with a few earthy undertones woven in. John committed the smell to memory. Of course he realised how creepy he probably looked right now, but he didn't care.

“JOHNNY!”  
John was brought out of his thoughts by his sister's scream and took off running. He jumped over logs, rocks and roots, sprinting as fast and as hard as he could. He could feel the muscles in his legs burning from the strain of working them so hard, but he kept going. He had the funny feeling that he was being watched, but he brushed it off as anxiety, which was welling up inside him at a rapid pace. Deja vu hit him again as he remembered the dream he'd had the first night he'd moved in, where he was running from some unknown enemy.

“HARRY?” John called.  
“OVER HERE!” she shouted back. John changed direction, leaping between two trees and skidding to a stop on the loose soil.

Harry was doubled over on the ground, clutching her bleeding knee. She looked up at John with puffy, red eyes, her bottom lip stuck out and trembling.  
“Don't cry Harry. I'm here. What happened?” John embraced her and surveyed her knee. Nothing serious. Thank God.  
“W..well, I s...saw a f...fairy and I r...ran after it a...and I t...tripped.” the small girl stammered in between tears. She shuddered violently and John held her tighter, running his hand through her short, blonde hair.  
“It's ok kiddo. We'll get you all cleaned up when we get back to the house. Up we go!” John got into squat position and hoisted his sister up into a bridal-style hold. He felt hot all of a sudden, as if someone were staring directly at his arse, but there was no one out here, was there?  
John trekked back up to the house with Harry, completely ignorant to the glasz eyes peering out at them from behind the scrub.

**********

“So, tell me about this fairy.”  
Mrs Watson, Harry and John were all sitting around the muted television in the lounge room. John and his mother were nursing cups of tea, while Harry sipped apple juice out of a curly, pink straw. Just as John had predicted, Harry told their mother all about their afternoon antics.  
“She was so pretty mummy! She had a white dress and long brown hair and red lips! Oh, and she talked to me mummy! She said her name was Irene!”

CRASH! The three Watsons directed their eyes to kitchen table. A plate had fallen on the floor and was broken into a hundred pieces. Mrs Watson sighed. “And to think, that's new lino too! No matter. John, take your sister upstairs and get ready for bed. I'll clean up this mess.”

John did what his mother told him and and put Harry to bed. He then ran himself a shower, washed off, dried and collapsed onto his bed, completely exhausted. He looked over to his desk and found the blue scarf laying in a heap on top of his school books. He had completely forgotten that he had brought it back with him, what with all the drama with Harry. He got up and retrieved the scarf before taking it back to bed with him and getting under the covers. He breathed in the scent of it and soon drifted off into a blissful slumber.

Hours later, John was startled awake by the feeling of an intense temperature drop. He clutched the scarf tighter, but felt it pull back. He opened his eyes to see a pale hand trying to ease the scarf out of his hands. He looked up and met a familiar pair of glasz eyes gazing back at him through the darkness. John relaxed his grip on the scarf, but was still wary.  
“Oh! I'm sorry. I tried to return this but I couldn't find you. How did you get into my room? Who are you?”  
The boy blinked back at him, his slim figure silhouetted in the window from the dim street lamps outside. John cleared his throat and sat up slowly, so as not to scare the boy off. The blanket slipped down to reveal his chiselled torso and the boy's eyes immediately moved down to all but stare at John's exposed skin. John smiled shyly. It was usually like him to show off, but under the boy's penetrating gaze, he felt exposed. A small pink tongue flickered out of the boy's lips as he stared up and down John's torso, memorising every detail.

“Like what you see?” John asked. The boy's eyes shifted back up to meet John's own eyes. John had never felt so vulnerable. And he didn't even know the boy's name!  
“What's your name?” he tried again. The boy opened his mouth, revealing strong, straight, white teeth. The voice that came out, however, sounded like pure sex, which was something John was not expecting.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” the boy murmured, before prying his scarf out of John's hands and disappearing in a small fog. The scent of cinnamon lingered in the room and invaded John's senses. Sherlock Holmes. He rolled the name around in his mind for a while. It sounded posh, but edgy and elegant at the same time. But the best part was, it fit the boy perfectly.

John rolled onto his back, when it was then that he realised that he was already half erect. Dammit. He sluggishly got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom, where he had the best wank of his life. He pumped some lotion onto his palm and worked his slippery hand up and down his shaft, thinking of nothing but Sherlock's voice saying “Come for me, John.” And he did. All over his favourite blue towel. John made a note to wake up early in the morning to do the laundry before his mother could see the mess he'd made. John slept uninterrupted for the rest of the night, feeling extremely satisfied.


	3. Forbidden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter!!! I hope this keeps you satisfied for a little while longer until I post the next one!!! Enjoy! (kudos and nice comments are much appreciated- I don't bite, I promise:))

The next morning, after accidentally over-sleeping and having to race his mother to the laundry basket, John readied himself for the day ahead. As he went to step out the door, he trod on a small newspaper clipping that had been placed in his bedroom door frame. He picked it up and studied it. It was an old article, at least a year older than him. Spring, 1985. A small image of two boys standing side by side and dressed to the nines was pictured at the bottom left corner. The print underneath the image read 'Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes'. John inhaled slightly and went on to read the article. It read:

'MR and MRS HOLMES mourn the loss of their first son, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, who sadly drowned in the creek behind their house at 221b Old Baker Road, not only three months after buying the house and moving in. Police investigators claim it was an accident but the elder Holmes brother, Mycroft, believes it to be murder. “My brother was murdered in cold blood. No question about it.” Mycroft Holmes has told the Bulletin. It has also been claimed by the elder Holmes boy, that, prior to his brother's death, Sherlock possessed a brilliant mind that was being plagued with horrible, otherworldly entities whilst living in that house. The younger Holmes claimed to 'hear whispered voices threatening the death of his family, feel heat radiating from certain parts of the house while it would be frigid in others, and physically feel a strange tapping coming from the locked basement door (which he said he felt time itself perfectly with the beating of his heart) whilst a woman’s pained screams filled his ears.' Mr and Mrs Holmes ruled it out as nothing but childish nonsense. Mr Holmes, with what minor power he currently upholds in the community, has ordered the house to be condemned. The order was overruled by the judge on the eighth day of investigation and the house has instead been locked up. The Holmes family has now relocated and made a new home elsewhere with their housekeeper, Mrs Hudson.'

John turned the clipping over and nearly had a heart attack. In big, red, letters, 'DON'T GO INTO THE BASEMENT' was written in rushed, but neat, handwriting. This was too much to take in at once. Sherlock was dead, and warning him, John Watson, a living, breathing human, not to go into his own basement. Nope. John couldn't believe it. But... what if it was actually true? It would certainly explain Sherlock's little 'disappearing acts'. John placed the piece of paper on top of his duvet, grabbed his rugby bag and ran out to the car waiting to take him to school.

**********

John stepped out of the bathroom with his blue towel secured around his waist. His mum had taken Harry to gymnastics that night, so John had the house all to himself. He padded along the carpeted hallway to his room, but stopped when he reached the stairs leading down to the basement. It couldn't hurt to take a peek, could it? Besides, there might be some hidden treasure in there, or even better, a dead body! (John sincerely hoped that it wouldn't be Sherlock's). He descended the steps two at a time, eager to find out what was lurking beyond the pitch blackness. Once he had reached the bottom of the stairs, he felt the walls for a light switch. When he couldn't find one, he relied on his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He could make out an old, wooden door. The wood was chipping and had burn marks in various places around the edge. There were three letters that had been violently slashed into the wood, causing it to chip even more around the damage. John moved closer and squinted into the darkness in an attempt to make his vision a little bit clearer. The letters read I.O.U. He reached out his hand to run his fingers over the letters, when he was suddenly pulled back by a powerful external force.

John grunted in surprise and adjusted his towel before turning around. Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, his left hand extended towards John.  
“Don't John.” he ordered, and John shivered, but not from the cold. John scrambled to his feet and raced up the stairs, holding his towel up and covering all his important parts. Sherlock turned sharply away from him and stormed off towards John's room. John followed.

He entered his room to find Sherlock standing at the window, gazing outside, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. John tentatively moved through the room and sat down on the bed. The boys stayed in silence for a few minutes. It was getting awkward for John, so he cleared his throat with a small cough. Sherlock spun around to face him, his eyes dark and burning into him.  
“I tell you to do one thing and you go and do the complete opposite! Was the warning in red not enough? Would you prefer that I acted like the ghost in Hamlet and walked around the house moaning every night? Or maybe you'd prefer a huge fireworks display in the sky reading “DON'T GO INTO THE BASEMENT JOHN!” he snapped sarcastically. John stared at Sherlock, eyes wide in shock. Where had that temper come from? He was almost as bad as John himself! John recovered from his shock fairly quickly and shot back, “Well I'm sorry that I was just looking at a part of MY house! And... how do you know my name? You told me yours but I never told you mine. What's going on here?”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and started to pace back and forth in front of the large window.  
“Listen, John, this house has a history and is full of things that you wouldn't understand...”  
“So? Try me.”  
Sherlock looked back to John and furrowed his brows. John continued.  
“Look, Sherlock, I accept the fact that you're a ghost, no matter how ridiculous it sounds. So I'm quite open and willing to try and understand anything at this point.”  
The young ghost opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. No one had ever accepted him as easily as John had, and this was the first time that they'd actually spoken to one another in complete sentences. After a moment, he sighed and ran a hand through his short, brown curls.  
“There is an...entity, in this house. It is part of the house and has been for over half a century. I would advise cation when you speak his name, as he has highly sensitive hearing. His name is,” Sherlock dropped his voice to a whisper, “Jim Moriarty.”

John looked around as if expecting something to happen, but when nothing did, he directed his eyes on Sherlock's expressionless face.  
“Am I supposed to know who that is?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.  
Sherlock huffed. “Oh God, what's it like inside your funny little brain? It must be so boring. FINE! I'll tell you, but you must never repeat this story to anyone else. This is not a story that you want to be spread around. Now, listen carefully. I do hate repeating myself.”

John got comfortable on his bed while Sherlock stopped pacing to look out the window again.  
“There was a man,” he began. “An evil man. Who lived in this house. The year was 1926. The man came home from work one day to discover that his wife was cheating on him with a female lover from the next town over. After a grisly argument, he slashed her throat and strung her body up with thick ropes on the front porch. He then proceeded to set the house alight and shoot himself in the head in the basement. The bodies could not be saved, but the house was renovated to look brand new. All except the basement. I moved into the house in 1985 with my family. You already know what I experienced from the newspaper clipping I left at your door this morning. Mycroft was right. I was murdered. By who, I am certain, but I can no longer communicate on a rational level with the living. They usually just run away screaming. All except for you John. Why?”  
John swallowed thickly. He was living in a murder house! But one question still stuck to the forefront of his mind.  
“How do you know what's in the basement?”  
Now it was Sherlock's turn to swallow nervously. He clasped his hands together and focused on a spot outside before replying.  
“I didn't heed her warning. She told me not to look. But you know what they say, curiosity killed the cat.” Sherlock let out a dry, humourless laugh. “I saw horrible things John. He was going to come after me next, but she killed me to save me from a worse fate.”  
“Couldn't you have moved house?” John asked.  
“After three months?” Sherlock scoffed. “My parents wouldn't hear of it. They were always stubborn like that...” his voice trailed off, and John realised that his eye had gone glassy. “Seventeen years, John. I haven't see them in seventeen years. I feel so... is this how you feel? I mean, you've lost your dad and all...”

John gasped at the mention of his father and felt tears begin to well up in his eyes. Sherlock felt his distress and glanced over at the rugby captain. He then realised that what he had said may not have been that tactful. This must be fixed.  
“I...I'm so sorry John. I didn't mean...”  
“How did you know about my dad?”  
“I deduced it.” He said proudly. “The way you are protective towards your younger sister indicates that you're trying to fill in the roll of her father. It's also in the way you hold yourself and the pre-mature wrinkles in the crease between your eyebrows. You were obviously close to your father, or you wouldn't be so hung up over his accidental murder.”  
“How could you possibly know it was accident?”  
“I guessed, but it was a good guess at that.”

John paused to consider this strange boy. “That was brilliant!”  
Sherlock locked eyes with John and the world seemed to stop.  
“Do you really think so?”  
“Well... of course! That was absolutely, without a doubt, amazing!”  
Sherlock's mouth slowly spread into a huge smile, and John felt his heart melt. Sherlock was so beautiful when he smiled. The ghost's expression quickly turned into one of confusion, and John realised that he had been unintentionally thinking aloud.  
“I'm so sorry, that just... came out.”  
Sherlock blushed slightly, and John couldn't help but giggle. Eventually, Sherlock joined in. It sent a tingly feeling through his stomach when he saw laugh lines crease John's handsome face and hearing his girlish giggle. After the laughter had died down, John discovered a new question that was plaguing his thoughts.  
“Sherlock...?”  
“Yes John?”  
“How do you know my name? You told me yours, but I never recall telling you mine.”  
Sherlock flinched and internally cursed himself for what he was about to say. “I've been watching you.”  
John raised his eyebrow. “Watching me? What for?”  
He could see a blush creeping up the ghost's pale cheeks and the tips of his pale ears turning a bright shade of pink.  
“Ifindyouattractive” he said under his breath.  
“What was that? You were speaking too...”  
“I FIND YOU ATTRACTIVE!” Sherlock interrupted. His eyes were hard, as if daring John to make fun of him.  
John was taken aback by the ghost's sudden explosion. Attractive? That mysterious beauty thought that he, John Watson, was attractive?  
He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but the only sound that came out was “Oh!”  
Sherlock turned around and hung his head in embarrassment, then disappeared in a small cloud of fog.  
“Wait! Sherlock!” John called. He sighed when he realised that his attempts at summoning the ghost back were all in vain. He collapsed on top of his duvet and closed his eyes. “I find you attractive too...” he yawned. Then sleep consumed him.


	4. The Holy Trinity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! It really means a lot.
> 
> I have soooo many assignments due this week and so many exams to prepare for!!! Wish me luck!
> 
> Happy reading!!! :) <3

John felt an enormous burst of power surge through him. His veins felt like icy water was running through them. The forest was zooming past him at an impossible speed. But there was no colour; everything around him was like one of those old black and white movies. John glanced down. He was wearing a body-slimming, white dress. Ah. He was a woman. But that wasn't the weirdest part. His feet weren't entirely touching the ground as he ran; he was floating!

Up ahead, breathless panting could be heard and then the thump of a body hitting the ground hard. He felt the corners of his lips raise in a smirk. As the trees up ahead parted for him, John could see Sherlock crumpled in a heap on the ground. One of the boulders near the creek had tripped him. No. STOP! John thought, but it was to no avail. John's arms outstretched and grabbed Sherlock under the arms, pulling him back towards the lake. Sherlock was screaming and struggling against John's grip. John felt like crying. He knew what was coming next. He tried to go against the impulses of his new body, but he couldn't control the way that the events of the past panned out before him.

He dragged Sherlock into the water and held his head under. The boy struggled for a long while, trying desperately to hold onto his thread of life. John wanted to scream at the top of his lungs until his throat hurt. But he couldn't. His new body was scarily unemotional and distant from any logical thought process. Killing Sherlock seemed like a reasonable thing to do. After what seemed like a life time for John, his hand finally released itself from the boy's head and the body sank into the shallow water.  
“I'm sorry.” he heard himself whisper, before the dream faded out into blackness.

**********  
John was rudely awoken by banging sounds coming from down the hallway. He groaned and pushed his face deeper into his pillow. Couldn't he get a decent night's sleep in this house without being disturbed one way or another? He slipped out of bed and padded across the cold, wooden floorboards, out into the carpeted hallway. He tiptoed down the hall until he came to the steps that led to the basement. When John peered down into the darkness, he could hear the basement door banging three times, pausing, and then repeating. Now, John had seen a lot of horror movies, and, to say the least, he was scared shitless.

He spun around with every intention to retreat to his room, but instead, came face to face with a woman. Her brown hair was tied up in a bun, and her red lips were thin and frozen in an expression that bordered absolutely terrified. John recognised her white dress from his nightmare, and instantly developed a passionate hatred for her.  
“Run.” She breathed, then disappeared into a fog similar to Sherlock's. The thick, nauseating aroma of Red Door perfume stuck itself in John's nostrils as he darted as fast as he could back to his room and slammed the door.

“The holy trinity.” A familiar voice said. John nearly jumped out of his skin in fright. He turned to face Sherlock, who was standing in his usual spot by the window.  
“What?” John gasped, completely out of breath from his mad dash. Sherlock spun around to look at John, his glasz eyes shining like opals in the iridescent moonlight.  
“The holy trinity. He's banging three times as an insult to the holy trinity. You know? Father, Son and Holy Spirit? Most demons do it; so unoriginal. I personally don't believe in that nonsense myself. If there was someone out there they would've taken me by now... they'll take anyone these days.”  
John couldn't help but feel sorry for Sherlock. He had no life any more and no family. John couldn't imagine what he'd do without his mum and Harry.  
“I'd take you... if I was Him.” John said shyly.  
“And I'd take you. John.”

The banging continued until dawn. Sherlock made sure to stay by John's side until the boy fell asleep, and even then he didn't want to leave the rugby player's side. Sherlock realised that he had developed strong feelings for John over the past few days that he had watched him. John was so caring and determined, and had a great body to boot! He reached out and brushed two cold, pale fingers over John’s right tricep. The rugby captain shivered in his sleep but leaned into the light touch. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile.  
“Oh Sherlock. Poor little Sherlock. Never fall in love with the living my dear; they’ll leave you in the end.”  
Sherlock let his eyes roll lazily over to the other end of John’s bed and roamed over the form standing there. Irene gave him a sad smile.  
“Yes, thank you for your input Irene, however I am quite capable of making my own decisions on the matter.”  
The seconds ticked by as the two ghosts stood, facing each other. Finally, Irene let out a slow breath and brushed a stray hair off her face.  
“Suit yourself sweetie.” And she was gone.  
Sherlock looked back to John, who was still sleeping peacefully. The lonely ghost’s vision clouded with tears that refused to be shed, because deep down, he knew she was right.


	5. Sensual Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, just so you know, I suck at writing smut... so I didn't... so just imagine how it happened (if anyone would like to write a smut fic to fill in the gap you are more than welcome!!!) Yes... I am a coward, I admit it. But don't hate me just yet! This took me a whole week to write in between assignment deadlines and such, so I have good reason for keeping that particular scene short and sweet. But it's still alright, don't get me wrong! I hinted at it!  
> ANYWAY, I hope you like it and I will continue to post chapters as soon as I can!  
> Thanks for the support and happy reading :)

The next day was Saturday, a small miracle John was thankful for. The incident with the basement door the night before had left him feeling lethargic and irritated, and he was grateful for the extended sleep in. But all good things have to come to an end at some point.  
“JOHNNY! Mummy’s made chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast! Wake up!”  
John heard Harry’s muffled footsteps thumping hurriedly along the carpet towards his room. A sharp knock at the door brought John to attention.  
“I’ll be right out!” he called back.  
The rugby captain slid drowsily out of bed, almost disorientated as he made his way to his wardrobe. He picked out a red, plaid, button-up shirt, a pair of light blue jeans and his favourite cream-coloured, woollen jumper. John looked at himself as he passed his mirror on his wardrobe door. His dark grey pyjama bottoms hung low on his hips, and his hair was in disarray, sticking up and out all over the place. He ran his hand though it a few times to smooth it down, before getting dressed and making his way out to the kitchen.

After breakfast, Mrs Watson told John to go out into the yard and play with Harry, while she vacuumed the house. Harry rushed out the door without a second thought, leaving John to wash her dirty dishes and clean up her mess.  
When he was finally free from unnecessary chores, John stepped out of the back door and into the bright sunlight. He deeply inhaled the fresh air, taking in the scents of pine and grass and something else that he couldn’t quite place. Curious as to the whereabouts of his sister, he wove his way through the few trees that scattered the yard, leading up to the forest ahead. The creek was just in view, and John smiled when he saw his sister in her wellington boots, splashing around in the shallows. She turned and flashed John a huge, toothy grin, waving her hand frantically at him enthusiastically. He waved back with equal vigour and pointed his thumb towards the forest, wordlessly telling her that he was going to explore. She nodded her understanding and went back to her childish game.

Small shrubs and pinecones crunched under John’s boot-clad feet as he ventured deeper and deeper into the forest. Vines bearing small purple flowers wound their way up tall trees that blocked out most of the sunlight. Mossy tree roots stuck out of the forest floor like gnarled fingers reaching for John’s ankles. He wove his way through the scrub, which, weirdly, started to thin out the deeper he went. After what seemed like hours of walking and admiring the lush greenery, John came to a small everglade. Lily pads with bright pink, yellow and white flowers floated upon the water, which was darkened by the shadow of the trees that surrounded it. Tadpoles wriggled through the water in small groups, only dispersing when John skipped a small, flat stone over the water. It was eerily quiet in this part of the forest, but it was peaceful.

Without warning, the lilies started to glow and a swirling mist began to roll in from in between the trees and settled above the surface of the water. Out of nowhere, Sherlock’s slim, elegant figure strayed out from the shadows, and glided out into the centre of the everglade. Slowly, his body moved into first position as a non-existent violinist began to play. John watched in awe as Sherlock’s sinewy body bended and twisted and leaped to the music. It was like a dream, and it took John back to his second night at the house, when he’d discovered Sherlock’s extraordinary talent.

Finally, the music came to a close and Sherlock bowed his body to indicate the end of his dance. John stood frozen, but regained his composure and clapped as Sherlock took another bow.  
“That was lovely! Amazing! Where did you learn to dance like that?”  
Sherlock blushed bright red and smiled shyly at John’s generous compliments. “I used to take lessons. My teacher said that I was destined for great things, and gave me the starring role in the school’s production of Swan Lake in December of 1985… I never did make that performance...”  
“Because you died.” John finished for him. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed in pent up frustration.  
“Yes, John. I died,” He snapped. “That much is painstakingly obvious.”  
“Hey,” John soothed, trying desperately to rein in his own rising temper. “There’s no need to snap.”  
He reached out to comfort Sherlock, but stopped.  
“Um… can I… can I touch you?” he asked. “Is… is that alright?”  
Sherlock looked taken aback.  
“I don’t know John. No one’s ever tried… but you can try… that is, if you want to.”  
“Oh God, yes.”

John reached out and gently started to stroke Sherlock’s frigid shoulder. He was surprised that his hand didn’t go through Sherlock, and he felt as human as John! The ghost leaned into John’s touch, eager to feel contact after seventeen lonely years. His eyes fluttered shut, and John gulped, his erection becoming eminent under the denim of his jeans. 

Sherlock sensed a change in John and opened his eyes to meet John's, which were dark with lust. John felt the ghost's temperature raise with his blush. In one swift movement, John had Sherlock up against a nearby tree and was snogging him breathless. Sherlock gasped under John's touch and responded eagerly to his lips and tongue. The rugby captain rocked his clothed erection into Sherlock's own erection and both boys moaned loudly. John's calloused fingers worked to undo the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, all but ripping the thin fabric off him. Sherlock's own nimble fingers tried to undo John's fly, and succeeded, rubbing his hand up and down John's underpants-clad cock.

John let out a possessive growl and moved onto Sherlock's neck, kissing and biting and nipping all the way down. He dipped his tongue into his collarbone and Sherlock grabbed John's head to stable himself and hold John's mouth against him. John's mouth moved to Sherlock's pink nipples, which were hard with arousal. He licked and sucked one while his thumb and forefinger teased and pinched the other, then switched. Sherlock panted and moaned under John's hands and mouth on him.  
“John!” Sherlock gasped. “Take me now! I want you so much!”  
And that's exactly what John did.

Later, after three rounds of hot, raw, passionate sex, John and Sherlock curled up underneath a tall oak tree, wrapped in a tight embrace.  
“John?”  
“Mm?”  
“Promise me that you won’t ever go into the basement.”  
“Sherlock—“  
“Promise me, John. Or I swear to God I’ll do something horrible.”  
“I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff.”  
“John!”  
“Ok fine! I promise that I won’t ever go into the basement. Happy now?”  
Sherlock grinned and snuggled closer into John’s shoulder, breathing in his scent. “Quite.”

After sitting with Sherlock for a while, affectionately stroking his unruly hair, John realised that he had never felt more content. That is, until Sherlock decided to ruin the moment and untangle himself from John’s arms and clamber awkwardly to his feet.  
“Where are you going, love?”  
Sherlock flushed. “I need to return to my grave John. At least once every two days I must return to where my body is buried or risk expulsion from existence. It’s incredibly tedious.”  
“When will I see you again?”  
“Tonight. I’ll come to your window around midnight.”  
“Ok. I’ll see you then.”  
He jumped up and gave Sherlock a chaste kiss on the mouth before the ghost faded away.


	6. At The Cemetery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't know where I was going with this chapter, but this should keep you entertained for a while until I post up the next chapter, which is still a work in progress. But I promise that it will be done by the end of next week at the latest, but I can't make any promises (sorry).
> 
> I know I've said this before but I can't thank you enough for reading my work and I hope you are enjoying it so far (I hope it is fuelling your fan fiction addiction [sorry, I had to])
> 
> Thanks again and Enjoy!!! <3

John turned his coat collar up against the wind as he stepped through the gates to the cemetery. Harry and Mrs Watson were already beside his father’s grave, chatting away, so John decided to go for a stroll. He wound around different sized gravestones and concrete angels, taking in the unearthly calmness of it all. He looked at the inscriptions on the graves, some of them looking much older than his own mother. 1988…1987…1986...1985. Suddenly, his eyes caught a black, polished headstone sticking out of the ground, sitting away from the others, under a lonely tree. John went over to investigate, and what he saw very nearly knocked the wind out of him.

‘SHERLOCK HOLMES. 1970-1985. Drowned. Beloved son and brother.’

John carefully ran his index finger over the gold lettering of Sherlock’s name. He couldn’t quite understand how Sherlock’s beautiful body was laying in the ground beneath his feet, when he had just seen him that morning. John couldn’t help the tears that started to fall from his eyes, nor could he stop himself from draping his body over the stone and crying until his throat hurt. It was so unfair. Not only for John, but for Sherlock.

“You can’t change the past John.”  
John wiped his eyes and turned towards the strange voice. A tall man with dark auburn hair, a pressed suit and an umbrella, stood behind him, leaning up against the tree.  
“H-how do you know my name? Who are you?” John asked, trying to hide his tears behind a blank face. But the man seemed to see right through his façade.  
“I could ask you the same question, although, the real question here, is what connection do you have to Sherlock Holmes?”  
“I’ll only tell you if you tell me who you are first.”  
The man sighed, defeated. “My name is Mycroft Holmes. I occupy a minor position in the British Government.”  
“Oh.” John said, his eyes widening as memories of the newspaper clipping came back to him. “You’re Sherlock’s brother. I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you. Um… yeah… Sherlock…um…”  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows as if urging John to continue, but what could John say? Oh yeah, I’ve just been talking to your dead brother and this morning we had sex. Nice to meet you!

“Yes?” Mycroft pressed. “What about Sherlock?”  
John frantically tried to think of something believable. “Err… well, I’m… I’m… doing a project for school. Yes! A school project! On deaths in the area. And your brother’s name came up, and so here I am.”  
“Crying over his grave like an old friend?” Mycroft raised a sceptical eyebrow.  
The rugby captain swallowed. He knew that it was time to take his leave. And quickly at that.  
“Well, it was really nice meeting you Mr Holmes. And I’m sorry about your brother. He seems nice. I mean, he SEEMED nice!”  
John went to walk off, but Mycroft swung his umbrella around and caught him around the wrist, using the umbrella hook to pull the boy closer.  
“Don’t get involved with what you don’t understand John. I’ve already made that mistake more than once.”  
He detached his umbrella from John’s wrist and let the boy go, watching him run back to the car where his mother and sister were waiting for him.

The elder Holmes shook his head. “I don’t know what you see in him Sherlock.” Then went to take his own leave, having got what he came for.  
He felt a cold gust of wind slap him across the face. Mycroft chuckled. “Brother dear, you humour me. Why don’t you ever answer me when I attempt to contact you any other time?” But there was no answer, as expected.  
“You can’t walk the earth forever Sherlock. It’s not natural.”  
In response, another gust of wind blew dry bits of leaves and dirt up Mycroft’s trousers. Mycroft yelped and exhaled in annoyance as he shook his legs about to rid his pants of the bothersome nature that was put there. “So immature.”  
He heard a small laugh flow down from the tree branch above him. He looked up. No one was there. The elder Holmes bowed his head and strode away from the headstone, swinging his umbrella distractedly as he went.

************

Seventy miles per hour felt faster at night, John thought. His mother and sister’s faces were illuminated by the lights on the car’s dashboard. Today had been emotionally (not to mention physically) exhausting. John let his head lie back on the headrest and allowed his eyes to close. He imagined the night outside, dark, mysterious and aloof. Just like Sherlock. Sherlock’s dark hair in contrast with his white skin was a comforting image that soothed John’s mind enough to relax him and allowed him to doze.

*************

Later, after Harry had been put to bed and Mrs Watson was sleeping soundly, John sat on the edge of his bed, his foot tapping out a nervous beat on the floorboards. He couldn’t wait to see Sherlock again. He needed the comfortable familiarity to distract him from his encounter at the cemetery.

A knock at his window shook him out of his thoughts and he smiled up at the figure standing at the window. Sherlock then passed through the glass as if it were an open doorway, and John shivered as the temperature in the room dropped slightly. Sherlock noticed this and collected the duvet and wrapped John’s body it, placing a loving kiss on his forehead. He wrapped his thin arms around John’s blanket-covered body in an embrace, as the rugby player gave him a gentle peck on the lips.  
“I love you.” John heard himself say. He felt his face and ears begin to heat up so he knew he was blushing.  
“The feeling is mutual, John.” Sherlock replied, and kissed John back with more passion and vigour than before. John whimpered when he felt Sherlock’s tongue run over his bottom lip, requesting entry, which John gladly gave him. Lips, teeth and tongues clashed as the kiss became more heated and desperate, hormones raging in the air around the two teens. Until suddenly, Sherlock was pulled back, cold air rushing into the space where he had just been. 

John whined in protest, but it was cut short when he felt two completely different lips crush against his. Stubble scratched against John’s chin, and John’s eyes snapped open to catch a glimpse of the offender. His face was close, but John could easily see into the man’s eyes, his black pupils staring at him. It wasn’t like Sherlock’s all-knowing and inquiring stare. It was the kind of look a predator would give to his prey. Hot, foul smelling breath invaded John’s nostrils, and John saw the world begin to fade out. Blackness clouded the corners of his eyes and seeped into the centre. John tried to scream, but the lump that had formed in his throat wouldn’t let him. He felt the man grimace against his lips, then disappear in a cloud of black smog. The last thing John saw before he blacked out was Sherlock’s face, petrified in abstract terror.

*************

John jolted and sat up in bed, breathing heavily. The sheets around him were drenched with sweat. When he looked up, he saw a pair of concerned, opalescent eyes peering down at him through the darkness.  
“Sherlock?” John mumbled sleepily, still a bit on edge.  
“You were having a nightmare John. Are you alright?”  
John took a few deep, shaky breaths before answering.  
“I think so. Ha. It was just a dream. A really... horrible dream.”  
“Yes, those are called nightmares John.”  
The rugby player let out a bark of laughter and the ghost grinned.  
“No shit Sherlock. But yes, I'm fine, thank you, love.”  
Sherlock nodded, although he didn't believe John. The boy's body language was very telling of his current state; distressed, afraid, in need of comfort.

The ghost walked soundlessly over to John's wardrobe and produced a shaggy blanket from inside, which he brought over to cover John. When he placed the blanket over John's shoulders, the rugby captain flinched. That's when they both realised that the banging had started again. Thrice the basement door would bang and stop and start again. John's eyes widened in fear, but Sherlock put his finger to the boy's lips and gestured for John to follow him.

They crept down the hallway, being particularly quiet when passing the basement, until Sherlock stopped in front of a section of wall at the end of the hall. He pushed one of the wooden boards on the wall aside to reveal a hidden room. Both the boys stepped inside and Sherlock resealed the entryway.  
“What's this place then?” John asked.  
“This was my old room. It was boarded up after the 'accident' because of sentimental reasons.”  
The banging outside sounded more muffled from in here, more of a dull thump.  
“This is some conjuring shit going on here.” John laughed, for the sake of something to do.  
“What's that?”  
“You don't know that movie? Oh! Of course... not in your time... well it's similar to what's going on here.”  
“So, pretty unbelievable then.”  
The boys laughed and joked until John fell asleep on the rug in the centre of the room. Sherlock watched over him with a protective eye for the remainder of the night.

************

The next morning, John was changing the laces on his rugby shoes when he heard a scream come from Harry's room. He quickly abandoned his shoes and dashed to her aid. He stopped halfway out of doorway, however, when he remembered that his mum and sister had gone to the market to pick up some milk. Before he could have any more time to be think rationally, his screaming sister was being dragged out of her room by the hair. John was confused beyond recognition, as there was no one doing the pulling, but his brotherly instincts overpowered his brain. He lurched forward and tried to grab her, but she was pulled in the direction of the basement. John could here Harry's cries of pain as her body thumped down the stairs. Then he heard the slam of the basement door and all went quiet.

Ignoring the promise he had made to Sherlock, he hurried to investigate the basement. As he made his way through the hall, he kept hearing whispers that seemed to come from the walls. They followed him as he got closer, getting louder all the time. A small, rasped singing voice with a distinct Irish accent echoed around the house as it sang a repeated morbid tune.  
“Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim’s going to get him. Johnny boy with the heart so true, he nearly got the other one too!”   
John descended into the darkness of the basement until he reached the door. He lifted the his hand to the door knob and twisted it. One single, rasped inhalation of breath could be heard from inside before the door was forced back on its hinges and John was flung to the ground, his wrist snapping painfully from the landing impact. He barely had time to register what was going on before the darkness hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry to leave you at a cliff hanger!!!! I will update ASAP, but until then, to be continued...


	7. The Demon in the Basement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I typed this out extra quickly so that I could get it to you guys in record time! Any mistakes are mine and I'm sorry I couldn't get it to you earlier, but I had this bloody big drama assignment to do and a book to read for english and type a paper up and PHEW!!!! STRESSSSSSS!!!!!!!! *flails about hopelessly*
> 
> I used so many quotes from the show in this!! I'm so proud of myself haha!!
> 
> Also, if I have made any mistakes, then I'll read over it once I have posted it and edit it from there, just so that I don't have to make you lovelies wait any longer.
> 
> I have planned out the rest of the story (roughly) and there is to be a happy ending, so I will type up chapter 8 when I get the chance (will be soon) :)
> 
> And finally, thanks for the kudos, the bookmarks and the hits!!! They mean so much to me so thank you!!! If you have any questions or any suggestions for a one-shot or otherwise, drop me a line down in comments or on my Tumblr http://lovepotterwholockuniverse.tumblr.com/

The sound of water dripping on metal pipes roused John from unconsciousness. He couldn’t open his eyes, but he knew that he was laying on something hard. He grunted when he felt his wrist throbbing painfully, but he made no move to inspect the damage. The steady beat of footsteps on cement echoed in the dark confines of the basement, alerting John to his current situation. Tap…tap…tap… “Wake up Johnny Boy! Jimmy’s done waiting now!” a cold voice called in a sing-song manner.  
“We need to prepare for Sherly’s visit! He’ll be here soon, so we’d better get you ready!” Suddenly, before John had a chance to scream, two pale, clawed hands came out of the shadows, down onto John’s shoulders and dragged him backwards, deeper into the dark basement.

*************

Sherlock was practising a complex ballet routine by the creek when a dreadful feeling overcame his body. Every hair on his form stood on end and an unearthly chill shook through him.

John.

The ghost burst forward, sprinting towards the house at supernatural speed. Something was very wrong. Sherlock burst through the door just as he heard the basement door slam shut. 

No.

Sherlock felt his world begin to fall part in slow motion as he staggered through the house. He felt like he was looking out at the world through someone else's eyes. The hallway seemed to be getting blurry around the edges, and Sherlock gripped the hand rails to the stairs as he felt his way down into the darkness.

The entrance to the basement stood before him, just as menacing as it had as when he saw it whilst living. The door appeared to move as if it were breathing. It creaked and groaned on its hinges, but it remained closed to what horrors dwelled within. A small, child-like voice sang “Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim’s already got him. Little Sherly couldn’t take the clues, now Jim’s gonna make Johnny Boy into shoes!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Jim’s attempt to lure him into his trap. The young ghost knew that he could possibly die a second death if he went up against a demon of Jim’s calibre and status, but that was a risk he was quite willing to take if it meant that John was safe. He thought of Mycroft's words about it not being natural to walk the earth, and he shook his head. In one swift, determined movement, Sherlock reached out and gripped the iron door knob and turned it, wincing at the pain the metal caused on his paranormal form. He turned the door knob and stepped through into the darkness.

Everything was dark, as expected. Sherlock walked blindly for a moment, trying to feel around for a wall, until his hand touched something soft, and very much alive. He jumped back and a small light flickered on in the corner of the room, casting a dim, flickering glow across the small expanse of the basement. Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room. The floor was dark grey concrete and the walls were chipped, bare bricks, completely the opposite of the wood that the house was made of. The basement served as a horrible memory of the past that continued to survive, no matter what happened to the house which resided over it.

His eyes finally happened over what he had run into, and Sherlock felt all the air leave his lungs. John was strung up upside down by his legs and arms, like an upside-down cross, against one of the walls. He was breathing shallowly and blood was streaming from his wrists, which had been scratched with shallow claw marks. Sherlock roved his gaze frantically over John to try and assess any more damage. Broken wrist… sprained ankle… disorientated…  
But his deductions came to a pause when he heard a soft, but icy, Irish voice speak up.  
“Oh! I wasn’t expecting you so soon Sherly dear! Long-time no see!”

A small man with a black suit and black, slicked back hair stepped out of the flickering shadows. He had a huge, sharp, toothy smile. At first glance, he looked completely normal. But Sherlock knew better. The demon’s eyes were two black pits that stared right into the dark depths of the mind that no one dared venture into. Jim stepped further into the light and slowly began to dance a bit, moving about the room at his own pace. His arms moved up and down at a controlled pace and his toes pointed as he slowly leapt and ducked within the small space.

“Well, better late than never, as they say. ANYWAY, so glad you could join us. I’ve been waiting for you to come back and visit me so long. How long’s it been now? Seventeen years? Tut tut my dear. And we had so much fun last time.”  
The demon then stopped dancing and began to pace around John, occasionally running his hands over John’s chest and muscular legs. Sherlock snarled. Jim continued, running his index finger in circles on John’s upper thighs.  
“But then you had to go and leave me! And you never came back. I had big plans for you Sherlock. But Irene had to go and ruin them on me!” he spat. “But she should know not to mess with me. I’m Mr Sex; everyone always comes back for more eventually. Just can’t help themselves! Aren’t normal people adorable? You should know. You’re on the side of the angels.”

Sherlock stood his ground defiantly.  
“I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think, for one second, that I am one of them.”  
The demon surged forward and swung his fist at Sherlock. On impact, the boy was thrown back and landed on the cold cement.  
“You can’t beat me Sherlock. I am the monster that haunts your nightmares. I am the shadow that stalks your every movement and thought. I AM ETERNAL. Don't you understand that Sherlock? I. AM. YOU!”

“No,” croaked Sherlock. He fell to his knees and looked back to John, instantly remembering Irene's advice- 'they'll always leave you in the end'.  
“No!” he said more forcefully.  
“Yes,” sighed Jim, as he continued to trail his claws up to swirl around John's belly button. “I'm afraid it's true. No matter! We can have twice as much fun now that Johnny Boy has decided to join us! Isn't that right Johnny Boy?” The demon drew back his hand and slapped John firmly on the arse. John grunted and began to stir.  
“Sh-Sherlock?” he murmured groggily.  
“I'm here John.” Sherlock replied.

John tried to move, but being upside down made it rather hard to do so, so he just swayed slightly.  
“Ah! My head! What's going on? Sherlock, love, are you alright?”  
The young ghost was touched by John's concern for him even knowing that he himself was in peril. He shakily got to his feet, trying to put on a brave face for John.  
“I’m fine John. I’m just glad that you’re alive.”  
Jim scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Stayin’ alive! It’s so boring, isn’t it? Why not just be dead? When you’re dead, no one can touch you. No one can hurt you. It’s just you and the worms…”

Jim dug his finger nail into John’s bellybutton and the boy cried out. Even though John was in pain, Sherlock could tell that John’s temper was about to make an appearance. He just hoped that Jim wouldn’t take it too harshly. But John chose to keep his outburst short, and anything but sweet.  
“SHUT UP you Irish PRICK! I have been through enough shit without you loading even more of it onto me and my family, yeah? So you know what? Fuck you.”  
The demon snarled and ran his claws over John’s chest, digging them in until they penetrated the skin. The walls started to glow orange as if they were suddenly engulfed by flames, and the temperature in the room rose until Sherlock thought John was going to pass out. He, being a ghost, was cold all the time, but John certainly would, and that’s where Sherlock’s concern lied. Jim put his face up close to John’s so that the boy could smell his foul, decaying breath.

“I will burn, the HEART, out of you.” He rasped. Sherlock went to run forward, but before he could move more than a step he was thrown back until he felt his back hit the basement stairs. He scrambled up and tried to get back into the room, but the door slammed shut in his face. Cold, maniacal laughter rose up from behind the door.  
“Soooo sorry that you couldn’t stay longer Sherly. But Johnny Boy and I have an appointment.”  
“SHERLOCK! HELP!”  
The ghost banged on the door with his fists, trying desperately to get in. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he brokenly cried “JOHN!” over and over again, even though, deep down, he knew that there was nothing he could do.

 

************

John squirmed and bucked relentlessly in an attempt to loosen his bonds.  
“Don’t struggle or I’ll make them tighter!” Jim sang as he circled John like a shark, going in and out of the brick wall at times to emphasise the point that he could go anywhere he liked. John would never be safe. He paused in front of the boy, training his eyes on John’s strong core muscles. In a variety of swift, precise movements, Jim sliced a Y-shape into John’s torso. It reminded the rugby captain of an autopsy at a morgue. Images of his father came flooding back once again and John couldn’t help the strangled sob that left his throat.  
“Good to hear you having fun Johnny Boy. This won’t take long. I promise.”  
John closed his eyes as Jim raised his hand, his clawed fingers automatically igniting in hellish red flames as he prepared to strike the only thing that Sherlock loved.

After a few seconds, John opened his eyes to find the demon frozen in place, face pallid.  
“What? Aren't you going to kill me?” John asked warily.  
That seemed to bring Jim out of his daze and he looked at John as if he had never seen him before. John felt her before he heard her. The soft voice of a woman floated in from outside the door. Jim snarled.  
“Irene.”  
And all at once, the lights went out and Jim was gone, leaving John upside down in the dark, bleeding and scared absolutely shitless.

*************

His hands hurt. His heart ached. His brain was exhausted from going through every possible horrible scenario that John might be experiencing. After a while, Sherlock was forced to give up or risk an injury. He slumped down on the bottom step, put his head in his hands and sobbed.

“Oh sweetheart.” A soft voice soothed. “I warned you, but you didn't listen. I'd hate to say I told you so...”  
“Don't.” Sherlock snapped in a warning tone.  
“I know you don't forgive me, but just hear me out.”  
Sherlock turned around to see Irene perched on the second last step. He thought about it for a moment, but then found that the pros outweighed the cons and so he nodded stiffly.  
“In life, Jim was a very selfish man. That's one of the reasons that I cheated. He was all about himself. He liked to boast. But that was also his greatest weakness. He boasted to his colleagues for weeks about how he was going to kill me, so the police were already watching him prior to my death. He had a lot of people on his side too. Very manipulative...”  
“Yes, yes, yes, what does that have to do with me?” Sherlock asked, clearly irritated by Irene's rambling.  
The older ghost huffed. “I was just getting to that! His weak spot! Everyone has one! It's...”

“How sweet!” a familiar voice quipped and both ghosts froze in fear. “Old acquaintances bonding! And talking about me behind my back? Now, we can't have that now can we? No. Better teach you a lesson about how bad gossip is. You should know all about GOSSIP, shouldn't you Irene?”  
Irene shuddered and bravely turned around to face her ex-husband. “You're a bastard Jim Moriarty!” Then she turned to Sherlock. “Sherlock, get out of here!”  
Jim gave her an ugly smile and Sherlock could clearly tell that this was going to be a stand off. He made the right precautions and disappeared, planning to ponder how he was going to manipulate Jim without knowing his weak spot, in order to rescue John.

Irene set Jim with a steady gaze. “Do your worst Moriarty.”  
The demon's grin grew wider. “Oh, I plan to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you will notice, I have edited this chapter to not include the part where Irene told Sherlock about Jim's weakness. I didn't know how to work with it, so I have altered it slightly to make the story more manageable for me to finish.
> 
> An update will be coming soon, I promise. I just have to get over exams and the stresses of the final year of high school first, but I will not leave you hanging! I love you all and thank you for reading! xo
> 
> -P


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